His deep, dark eyes gazed into hers, gently tucking her hair behind her ear, concealing her brows, and softly, patiently, he asked again, "Scarlett Yates, tell me, do you hate me?"
Hate?
Scarlett Yates' expression momentarily turned perplexed.
At this moment, he was so close to her, their shadows on the ground overlapped, indistinguishable from one another.
His deep eyes looked down, with a gaze so tender it could intoxicate.
On such a quiet night, under the tender and focused gaze of a man as picturesque as a painting, even the bright moonlight outside the window must be enchanted.
Let alone her.
Does she hate this man?
Scarlett seriously asked herself in her heart and thought long and hard about it.
She always told herself she hated him.
His flirtatiousness, his frivolity, his cynicism, his arrogance, he embodied so many things she detested most.
It was rare for someone to concentrate so much of her aversion into one person.
She should hate this man.
But...
